


and i've been fessing, double-fast

by smithens



Series: and it's my heart, not me, who cannot drive [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Awkward Crush, Dialogue Heavy, Driving, Dropping Hairpins, Flirting, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Male Bonding, Male Homosexuality, Mutual Attraction, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-21 08:22:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21296438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: There's something in particular that Richard Ellis and Thomas Barrow would like to know about each other.Problem is, they're both just trying to get through the drive to York without giving it away aboutthemselves.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Richard Ellis, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: and it's my heart, not me, who cannot drive [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535195
Comments: 41
Kudos: 155





	and i've been fessing, double-fast

**Author's Note:**

> written after [a post i made on tumblr](https://combeferre.tumblr.com/post/188658356516/) got excellent reception.

> and i've been 'fessing, double-fast,  
addressing questions nobody asked.  
i'll get this joy off of my chest, at last,  
and i will love you  
till the noise has long since passed.

— ["Good Intentions Paving Company" as sung by Joanna Newsom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQU6M0TqAAc)

* * *

"Tell me about Downton Abbey," Richard says, as soon as they're in the car. "Not the house itself, mind, rather hear about the people."

"The people," Thomas repeats. Not too unusual a request, given everything, but the whole royal entourage has been around for a full day already, so he must've been introduced to everyone who's anyone downstairs at the very least. They're not all that large in number anymore.

And there is _plenty_ to say about the folks at Downton Abbey, no doubt about that. If it were any other time, any other place, any other man (can't very well pull the wool over his own eyes, can he, although this would be a lot easier if he could), he'd be more than keen to tell everything. He's got almost twenty years worth of secrets, after all; given what just happened in the post office, he's guessing that Richard might be interested in that sort of information.

The problem is: his heart is still pounding, he can't stop smiling, there's no way he isn't blushing, and getting through this without making an utter fool of himself _or worse_ is going to make for the most difficult thirty minutes of his life.

"And the – the day to day, I suppose. Never worked on a country estate, besides Windsor Castle, you know, and Sandringham, but I reckon that's not the same thing."

It absolutely is not.

"Right, then," says Thomas, for his own sake. This is going to be an interesting conversation, to say the least. "Upstairs or down?"

"Down, of course, don't give a damn about the rest of them – unless you do, rather, sorry, that was – "

"Nah."

He hardly gives a damn about any of them himself, if he's honest, although: "they've been good to me, won't deny that." (They've also been bloody awful at times, but he knows he's extraordinarily lucky to be in their house, even if there's no way in Hell he'd ever tell Richard why.) "But I'm not about to get sentimental over it."

Not in this car, at least.

"And you've been there how long?"

"Seventeen years. Started as a footman."

Richard whistles.

He's not sure if it's because he's impressed or sympathetic. 

"You? At, er, Buckingham Palace, I mean – "

"Obviously," Richard says. There's a glint in his eye, like he thinks Thomas's stumbling is endearing. Not in a good way, in an _I can't do anything to help this toddler figure out how to stand up for the millionth time but I'm sure the tyke'll get it eventually_ way.

Well, maybe that's a good way from his perspective, but it only serves to make him feel like an idiot, which is what he's felt like nonstop for the past twenty four hours at least.

A country idiot.

A desperate country idiot.

(It's been a while since anyone's been interested in him in any capacity, though, friendly or _friendly_ alike, but he has no idea how to go about determining what's what, here. He's not twenty; he's not working for him; he can't just stroke his face and see whether it gets him a shiner or a smile.)

"Twenty. Got in right out of school, just turned sixteen, been there ever since."

There's more basic information for him, then: subordinate valet – or _Royal Dresser, Second,_ excuse him; from York; thirty six years old. (Excellent smile; family man; not opposed to prank calling his employer; handsome — )

"Blimey, how'd you manage that?"

"Mum worked for Princess Louise."

That would do it.

And now he can add _born into service_ to his mental Richard Ellis dossier.

"Nevermind that, though, sure you're sick of hearing about the Royal Household — you rose through the ranks, didn't you, Mr. Barrow?"

"Could say that, yeah."

Every hallboy's fantasy. 

Except his, unfortunately, he'd always had grander plans for himself than this, but it is what life's given him and he's hoping he'll be satisfied with it soon enough.

Richard drums his fingers on the steering wheel; Thomas doesn't say anything, because he's brooding.

"Anyone else climbed the ladder like you have?"

Right. 

This conversation is about Downton, not his dashed hopes and dreams.

"There's Daisy," he says. She's the only example, really; the others that have been there as long as he has haven't quite come up as much, other than Anna — but she was promoted years ago and has been doing the same job since.

He wonders if he can tell him that Daisy's recently proclaimed herself a republican. He definitely _can't_ tell him that he thinks it's one of the better thoughts she's had in her life, he's not stupid, but maybe Richard would be amused by the Labour stronghold downstairs. That's been yet another unexpected blessing, now that Carson's not around — no moratorium on political talk. For one thing, Thomas doesn't really give a damn about keeping the subject off limits, himself, and for another, they're all on the same page, anyway.

Except that Carson is around, at the moment, and he isn't.

But he's not going to think about that, because he's got waters to test, here.

"Which one was she?"

"Skinny, brown hair – oh, she was the one who asked about Raby Castle, actually."

"Aha," says Richard. "Daisy."

In an odd tone and with a sideways glance.

_So this is that sort of thing, is it,_ Thomas thinks, and he says, hastily, "is engaged."

The waters are not fit for faring, apparently.

"Haven't got your eye on her, then."

Thomas huffs, thinks, _no, and nor should you;_ he's not sure if he's protective of her or just jealous — no, he is sure. He's jealous. Daisy can hold her own these days, despite what everyone around her might think.

What he says out loud is, "Christ, no, she was, what, ten when I met her, been around longer than I have," like _that's_ the only reason, "point is she's assistant cook, now, began as a scullery maid ages ago."

This makes Richard frown, for some reason, and he just says, "that's a pity." 

And he actually sounds like he means it, too, which… 

"Don't think either of us mind that I'm uninterested."

"Oh, no, no, of course not, only – rather sad she'll be leaving, having come so far."

Huh.

Thomas just tilts his head at him. "Why would she be leaving?"

"Well, she's getting married, isn't she?"

Sometimes he forgets about the rules for the rest of the industry — rules they may have followed at Downton, once, but despite Carson's bootlicking nature they actually stopped long before he was in charge. If there was ever a rulebook in the butler's office, it's muddied up in a bog somewhere.

He'd sort of assumed that was just changing times, post-war world and all of that, but given how genuinely perplexed Richard looks, he might have been wrong. If he has been, that's lucky for everyone, because they'd all have been sacked years ago if the place were in line with ordinary domestic expectations.

And when Daisy leaves Downton, it will happen when she thinks it suits her, he's certain, because she's educated herself and developed ambitions and gotten set up to have a bloody farm and a house and an independent income.

He's realising be might jealous of her in more than one way.

"Right," says Thomas. How can he put this delicately. "Your first mistake, Mr. Ellis, was assuming that we keep a normal household at Downton Abbey."

"Oh?"

"Won't blame you," he goes on, nervous but still grinning more widely than he wants to be, because it's impossible for him to keep a straight face; and he can't stop himself from putting a lilt into his voice, either, from teasing, from _flirting_, more like, on the increasingly slim chance that — "it's an entirely reasonable assumption, given you must be under the strictest standards up at the big house, but…"

"But you're not."

"Not at all."

Richard grins at him right back.

His heart does a somersault.

"Er, the head housekeeper's an actual Mrs., too," he says quickly, because talking more about work is bound to get his mind off this infatuated-at-first-sight thing he's dealing with. "Married to Mr. Carson, who, for the record, can't pour a bloody glass of wine by himself," he is probably not going to endear Richard to him if he keeps up being bitter, he realises, but he can't very well talk about Carson without getting sharp, after everything, "er, he was the last butler. "

"The one presiding over the house at the moment, you mean?"

He says it the way Thomas had asked, _is Mr. Miller often ill._

"Thought the one doing the actual presiding was yours, actually," he replies, turning his hat around in his hands. He's not ready to call touché just yet. "Looks like they only brought Carson back for decoration."

He can't very well be bitter when a man's looking at him like that, can he.

"And you'd rather that be your job, then?"

"Well, I'd be better at it than he would."

Richard leans over to check the mirror, and while Thomas can't quite see his eyes, he can see that he's biting his lip the way men do when they're trying not to smile, and —

"Not if your staff have got owt to do with it, I suppose?"

_Ouch._

Thomas huffs, tries to keep stolid, but he's unsuccessful. He sucks in his cheeks and stares out the window, presses the heel of his hand into his thigh. The greenery bordering the road is more and more a blur with every passing second — Richard's speeding, has to be.

"I mean – that's – er, rather – was, ah… under the impression the point of all this was to give the Downton folk some more responsibility during the visit."

The Downton folk, excepting him. 

Beside him, there's a deep breath, and then a rush of words: "hardly mean to say you'd not be excellent decoration, Mr. Barrow."

_What the fuck._

And turns out he's definitely bloody speeding, because although there aren't a whole lot of cars on the road — still working hours for the middle classes and whatnot — there's suddenly one merging onto the motorway in front of them and it is _not,_ which, _who even drives under the damn speed limit it's 1927 they don't enforce it half the time anyway_ but there's a god awful screeching sound and the crunch of gravel as Richard slams the brakes —

As they're flung forward, he throws his arm across Thomas's chest, and it's firm enough he might very well have bruises later, but it does its job and keeps him in place even if he's breathless and a little whiplashed.

It stays there, too, because they're both frozen.

The car in front of them keeps going; it gets smaller, smaller, smaller, and thank God there's no one behind them, because they're still not going anywhere.

Until they are.

Just before they start moving again, Richard lowers his arm, puts his hand on Thomas's knee — and then on the gear shift, and then on the steering wheel. 

He looks straight ahead the whole time.

Because he's not exactly thinking rationally and hasn't been since they walked out of the back door of the house in Downton, Thomas is in a frenzy less over the fact that they could have just died and more over how _his hand was just on his knee,_ and he's _fairly_ certain that he didn't have to do that, that it was not a necessary intermediate step between 'do not let the passenger go flying through the windshield' and 'keep driving'; those are the only two actions; there's nothing in the middle, and if there is, it's definitely not 'gently lay your palm on the passenger's leg like you're on a bench just after sunset in a public park in London' — 

"Sorry about that," Richard says.

"Wasn't your fault," he replies.

_Get yourself together, Barrow._

"Bad liar, are you?"

Thomas laughs. It sounds like a bark, doesn't come out of his mouth properly. 

"If I choose to be," he says. 

He lets himself smirk.

Richard's laugh is as gorgeous as he is, but he says nothing, keeps staring forward.

They're silent until Thomas gets his courage back.

"Anyway," he says, still shaken, "Daisy's fiancée to Andy, and there's not much remarkable to say, there."

Richard hums.

"Except that he wants to trade service for farming, which is the backwards way to go about it if you ask me, but she's actually got a farm to inherit, so he'll be — y'know, shouldn't say that, really, it's… it's a sad story when you get down to it, erm, what else — "

"Got a couple of ladies' maids, don't you?"

"'Course – there's Miss Baxter – "

"Oh, I spoke with her, actually," Richard interrupts, and there's that side-eye again. "Seems the two of you get on rather well?"

"Done your research, did you?"

It's more brusque than he meant for it to be.

He tries not to notice the way Richard's hands tense on the steering wheel.

"She mentioned you first," he says. His voice is suddenly even, guarded.

Of course she did.

_Breathe._

"I got her the job," Thomas says slowly. "We knew each other when we were kids."

And she's probably the only person whose secrets and shortfalls he wouldn't readily share, if he's honest with himself.

They're friends.

You don't do that to your friends, he's learned. People you've got an _understanding_ with, sure, although he's not jumping to throw folks under the train at first misstep nowadays, not like he used to be, but — not friends.

"She and Molesley, that's the man brought in to be a footman, they're sweet on each other and too bloody shy to do anything about it, but I wouldn't say either of them've got much especially interesting to share besides — except, he used to be a valet, and a footman, 'til he got out of service."

"What's he do now?"

"Schoolteacher, in the village. They put him up in a cottage and everything."

A pause.

"What a way to fly the nest."

_You can say that again,_ Thomas thinks. Being asked to step down has brought up a whole lot of bile.

But they're nearer to York, now, can't be that much time left on the drive. He looks at Richard, because he can't help it. 

He's really something.

Whether or not this turns out how he wants it to, deep down, it'll be nice knowing someone wanted to spend time with him, that he might end the visit with a friend in a high place he actually gives a damn about for reasons beyond status.

"And then there's… Mrs. Bates?"

Jogs him out of his mooning, but he doesn't entirely mind — now is when things get interesting.

"Christ, no one calls her that — she's Anna to everyone," he says. He tries to keep his tone nonchalant. "She's all right, really; once you've met her, you know her. Married to Mr. Bates, obviously."

"Mr. Bates."

"Stocky, has a limp," is a smug bastard.

"And his role is…"

"Lord Grantham's valet."

Richard tilts his head; his eyes scrunch up a bit.

"That's rather…"

"Unusual?"

"Was going to say unheard of."

Rulebook. Bog.

"You don't know the half of it."

"Can I?"

Thomas hums. "Story there is, he got chummy with the Earl in the Boer Wars, and Lord Grantham's a generous man, for an Earl."

For anyone.

And even that might be something of an understatement, but again, he's not about to get into detail about the few but significant kindnesses he's received at Downton.

"Is that… very unreasonable, assuming he can do his job?"

"Eh, he can't always, but that's not the main thing with the Bateses, y'see," conspiratorial.

Makes Richard turn toward him, and he's got an amused glint in his eye and the quirk of what-could-be-a-smile on his face.

Which in turn makes Thomas want to melt.

"Dare I ask?"

"Couldn't say, Mr. Ellis, do you?"

Thomas doesn't wait for him to decide, though.

"Been in prison three times, between the two of them, once for theft and twice for murder."

At this, Richard laughs, and gives him a look like _no, really,_ and this is just excellent, it really is.

"Oh, did you think I was joking?"

The laugh turns into a cough, and then Richard clears his throat, but he keeps opening his mouth and then shutting it. 

It's _delightful,_ and it makes him feel all fluttery inside.

"Because I wasn't," Thomas says, and if he's honest this is getting him giddy even without the lavender elephant in the room, because he's not had a chance to gossip with anyone out of the house in years. He's fond of the trick cards up his sleeve, glad he's able to play them and that they're having the effect he wants them to. "Aside from that," like it's just a little thing, being a suspected murderer, "they've got a son, year and a half old; he's a good lad. Closer to him than his parents, to be honest, and he can't even speak in sentences."

Still speechless.

Thomas just watches him, charmed and amused — that was probably two bombshells one after the other, though he's going to assume that the whole jailed for murder thing is more surprising than Johnny's existence. It is interesting, though, how much of this Richard doesn't already know about, how flummoxed he is. He's fairly certain they've got something of a reputation up north, whether or not things actually make it into the papers, if only because he's come up against other downstairs folk once or twice who seem to have a good idea about some things. And even if the word on Downton Abbey hasn't reached London, this isn't just London, it's Buckingham Palace; someone there must know about everything that's gotten beyond the estate. He'd thought they might have given everyone on staff a whole briefing on their lives down to the minute, or something.

Then, maybe they don't actually care all that much.

For a short while afterward, neither of them say anything. Thomas supposes he ought to let it sink in.

He leans back, looks out the window at the shrubs and trees around them — Richard is now taking the long route to York, village roads, and Thomas isn't prone to correct him.

"Get on well with children, do you?" he says at last.

It's not what he'd see as the most pressing question, after what he's just told him. He splutters, does the whole opening and closing his mouth thing that was attractive on Richard but probably makes him look stupid.

Which, again, might not be much of a change, but he'd _just_ gotten his bearings, and now they're gone again, and that's not going to be in his best interests here.

"I mean – yeah, I do, actually."

It's true.

Richard looks at him again, bright-eyed; this smile is less of a smirk, it's genuine, it radiates. Thomas catches himself staring at his lips, and despite his sudden discomfort he knows he's smiling, too — he has to force himself to look up, because this could go very, very, very badly if he gave the wrong (right) impression.

But the second they make eye contact, his gaze is back on the road.

"Ever thought about… having your own, and whatnot?"

"Well, I…"

Fuck.

"Not sure it's an option, really," he says, haltingly. He's not smiling anymore, not genuinely, rather, but Richard's stopped looking at him, so he's safe for now. 

"That so?"

_Fuck._

"Have to say, I don't see why it couldn't be, if you wanted — never known of a house with so many couples downstairs."

He dug himself into this damn hole and now he has to hoist himself out, doesn't he.

"Call me old fashioned," he manages, an obvious strain in his voice, and he hopes that even if that's loud and clear Richard at least doesn't notice the way he lingered over his answer. "Not like I went into service expecting to have a happy family by the end of it."

He went into service expecting that he would be _excused_ from having a happy family by the end of it, in fact — it's been a blessing and a curse, but there are factors other than his job preventing little Barrow bundles of joy.

Like biology.

"No, no, I suppose you wouldn't have, but times are changing, as they say."

Thomas looks out the window. 

"Well, then, Mr. Ellis, if you're so forward thinking, any girls at Buckingham Palace you're after?"

Surprised as he is at how natural the words sound coming out of his mouth, it dawns on him as he says it that he has absolutely no idea how men talk about women.

While he did get on all right in his early years joining in with the vulgar chatter downstairs, that's probably not the sort of conversation two adult men would be inclined to have; since then, he's been privy to some talk, but not all of it. They've only had one footman and one hallboy for the last couple of years, so there's far less gossip than there used to be.

Prior to that, his input wasn't exactly welcome. 

Long story short, it's been a while since he's even had the opportunity to have a conversation like this. Even if Andy and Albert do get to talking about things, they're not going to bother with getting his perspective. Besides, it's not like he'd have anything useful to add to beyond what they can figure out themselves, so long as they bother to pay attention to the feelings of whoever they're sweet on. 

Point being, Andy's not about to take any advice from him on how to woo Daisy; he's not about to give it. 

No use pretending if everyone already knows. 

The problem is: everyone at _Downton_ may know, but not everyone in the world does, thank God. And being that Richard Ellis is, he's about certain now (the feeling of his palm on his thigh and 'excellent decoration' and that goddamn _smile_ aside), a perfectly normal man with, judging on looks alone, plenty of experience in this area, he is going to see very, very quickly that Thomas is not cut of the same cloth if they keep on about this for much longer.

"Oh, they'd never allow it."

"No?"

"Not a chance in hell, Mr. Barrow."

"What, so you don't even… I mean, surely there are plenty?"

"Plenty indeed — there are maids everywhere, most of 'em lookers, too," goddamnit goddamnit goddamnit, "...and if I were to try anything with one, I'd be thrown out in an instant."

Once upon a time that was the situation at Downton; it just isn't anymore, by the look of things. 

Not by the look of things, actually, because technically, it'd be his job to stop it if it was. The thing is, he doesn't actually care. Despite what he'd've expected, given their predecessors, Andy and Albert are actually more manageable when they're pining over girls — keeps them on their best behaviour. 

Plus, the maids live in the village; even if Mrs. Hughes hadn't gone soft when she married, there's not much either of them could really do to keep them under lock and key.

Again: if they wanted. Which they don't.

As has been well established, rulebook in the bog, and whatnot.

"...pity, that."

He went for the short answer on purpose and it still manages to make him sound like he has no idea what he's on about.

"Eh, rather have a job than a woman, at the end of the day." 

Thomas just stares at him, eyebrows raised, because he cannot bloody handle all of this back-and-forth, this thing where one second he's on about babies and housemaids and the next he's saying things like _that_ and _what in the hell is he supposed to make of any of the words coming out of his beautiful mouth._

There's an uncomfortable pause.

Richard ends it, hasty: "I mean, if we're choosing. If I had to… choose between the two, and, you know, both weren't an option."

"Not so hypothetical as you're making it sound, is it."

Given that the point of this conversation is that they did, in fact, choose, and both was not an option.

"Just fond of my work, Mr. Barrow."

On the defensive again.

Thomas might be going insane.

"Didn't say you weren't."

No reply.

They fall into an uneasy silence.

Thomas doesn't look at him, but he does feel as though he's being looked at. The farmland around them is now dotted with clusters of houses, and he simply looks for a turn — he hasn't been out here in a while, doesn't have as much free time as he did, once. Every time he is, though, things are more built up, there are more cars on the road, there's a sense of growth and evolution and big things on the horizon.

Times _are_ changing, and state of the domestics aside, he's not really a part of it, at Downton.

Wants to be, though. Wishes he was.

"Anyone else as interesting you've not told me about, Mr. Barrow?"

Richard's cavalier again.

"Er," says Thomas, a little unsettled. "There's Mrs. Patmore, cook — as far as interesting goes… erm, had a local scandal a couple of years back."

Not a time he's especially fond of thinking on.

Richard must sense the change in his mood, and he says nothing.

They're in York proper by the time either of them speak again.

"Sounds as though everyone at Downton's gotten up to something out of the ordinary at one time or another," says Richard, just conversational.

"To say the least, yeah."

Ahead of them, a group of schoolgirls cross the street; traffic stops to yield to a tram.

Thomas is just about to ask when and where Richard's expected when he gets a question, himself: "what about you, then, Mr. Barrow, what's out of the ordinary about you?"

He stops breathing.

It's meant to be a joke, clearly, it has to be a joke, he's smiling and he said it in an offhand sort of way, but it's not as funny as it ought to be, given… what's out of the ordinary about him.

He can't just say it. He can't; that'd be a terrible decision in every way, he hasn't yet figured out if he's imagining things or not but knowing him, knowing his past experiences, he absolutely is, and even if he isn't, where can this even _go_ from here? He's here for two days, maybe doesn't have much going on back in London, romance wise, and while Thomas wouldn't say no to something purely physical that's not exactly a conversation to have before the man goes to see his _parents,_ and besides that, he needs to get it into his damn head that _he is imagining things._

But even if he isn't, even if he isn't, _even if he isn't,_ because he knows himself and he knows he can't bloody well force himself not to hope that this is what it's been all along, that Richard invited him because he knew, somehow, that he wanted —

Well.

What is it that Richard would actually want from him?

It's not a question he can answer, at this point, so he's not about to lay his cards on the table.

"Oh, I – " 

He forces a smile.

It was stupid for him to not have expected this question, either, because it's entirely innocent in context, what with him airing out all the downstairs dirty laundry — it's true, after all, everyone at Downton's odd somehow.

Entirely innocent.

"You'll have to get to know me better to find out, won't you?" says Thomas. 

"Ought to have plenty of time," Richard replies, easy. "Much as I love my parents, they're not ones for hosting — imagine we'll run out of things to talk about before dinner's on the table, say our goodbyes shortly after it's over… and then you and I can get to know each other, like you said."

He parks the car.

Thomas doesn't say anything.

"We do have some minutes to spare now, though, I think — what do you say we walk around, find somewhere for you to wait for me?"

He nods, gives a tentative smile, because that's what he'll have to do, isn't it.

Wait.

**Author's Note:**

> this series is dedicated to everyone who did not read my other thomas/richard fics, [you will not take my heart, alive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885519) and [what we must to get by](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21178331) because they didn't want to deal with infidelity and/or closeted marriage.
> 
> please accept this flirting as a token of reparations.


End file.
